


The Voyeur's Crown

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aggressor uses knowledge of victim's kinks against them, F/M, Pussy Spanking, there's not really voyeurism in this i just thought the title was funny sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-17 21:54:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21700342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: What does an archival assistant even do? Probably not this.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Melanie King
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58
Collections: Anonymous Fics, Consent Issues Exchange 2019





	The Voyeur's Crown

Possibly this is squalid. Possibly this is a nasty and physical horror all out of tone with the colder creeping terror he's aligned himself to, a hell of fluids and smells and noises so much more bodily than the click-click stutter of a tape recorder flicking on. Possibly he is dallying in the territory of the Hunt, or the Slaughter--there is so much more to warfare than just death.

Well, Elias considers himself well-rounded. His existence is not that of a metronome tick tocking between man and God. The hemispheres are not that distinct. He is still a man, and his desire to be long in this world, and everything he has done to _reach_ his desires, has everything to do with the world. No high and lonely ascetic drinking moonlight and bruising his knees, Elias Bouchard. He wants the world in pieces that are all his, to be sure, but, crucially, he wants the world. Power as a word is meaningless, it must always be power over something. Something must be underfoot if you are going to be on top. Elias wants the food, the music, the books, the alcohol, the fight, the win, the helpless choking snot-filled sobs from the woman bent over his desk.

He's mostly dressed. She's mostly not. If he were a kinder man, he'd tie Melanie's ankles to the legs of the desk and let her pretend there's still something in her that would fight this. Instead she has to hold them apart herself. Her knickers (small, ridiculous, frothy things) are dangling around one of her ankles. Her skirt is crumpled up over the small of her back. For the last few minutes he's just been sitting back in his desk chair, finishing his coffee, watching her shifting, balancing, closing and opening her hands, hunching her shoulders. Watching the fear and shame and arousal spreading through her like rot.

Elias puts down his cup, eventually. The faint noise of it makes her startle--she's as attuned to him right now as any prey animal. He sits forward in his chair and puts two fingers between her legs. She makes a graceless little grunting noise, the same noise she makes when punched in the gut. He drags them up, and down, spreading the moisture around, bumping her clit only carelessly and in passing. Melanie twitches each time. Elias stops with just the tips of his fingers pressed inside her.

"Fuck yourself," he says. "Show me what you're good for."

It entertains him every time to know that she feels his voice with a near-physical intensity. In the way that thinking of lemons makes her salivary glands ache, hearing his voice go low and raspy turns her knees to water. There are feelings inside Melanie that huddle very close to her fears. There are nasty confusing muddled places in her head, and they call to Elias like the scent of cooking meat. 

She hesitates, a breath, another, but she can only be what she's been trained to be, poor girl. She pushes her hips back onto his fingers, burning hot and soaking wet around him. Slowly, and then faster, harder, trying to arch herself so his straight fingers stroke that sensitive place inside her. Elias isn't a terrible boss; eventually he relents, curls his fingers down, down, again, again, watching the terrible satisfaction of it go through her in waves.

Then he pulls his fingers out and smacks her between the legs. Hard. Loud. She jerks, one leg spasming, knee slamming into the desk. The angle's too awkward to continue like this--he stands up, puts a hand on her lower back, splayed fingers over her crumpled skirt. The front of his trousers is pressed against her hip. He wants her to know how much he enjoys hurting her, as he proceeds to, raining heavy slaps directly between her legs, on all that wet and swollen and desperate flesh. Melanie shaves, these days, because she's told to. She has learned well to believe him when he speaks. 

It's a lovely visual, watching her skin go red and swollen and pouting as a kiss-bruised mouth. Melanie is shedding tears and hitching breaths and wet near-sobs into the desk. He's hurt her worse, but being hurt here is a special fear of hers, one he savors like a favorite chocolate, melting slowly on his tongue. 

Her spine is curving, and Elias pushes down, forcing her to arch back into the pain. Retaliatory, he focuses on her clit for a dozen or so blows. He's not counting, really. There's agony forking through her like lightning, from the clouds to that tight little bundle of nerves, there's hate for him that would be more a worry if not twined with a much more poisonous hate for herself, and roiling, roiling, roiling, sickening her, dragging through her like fishhooks, her arousal has not gone away. If he's measuring anything, it's that.

Elias shifts, taking his hand off her back so her can use his fingers to spread her lips. He makes sure to lay some particularly nasty strikes on her entrance. Melanie can take much more than this before she stops getting wet for him, and he loves the clinging heat of bruised skin.

When Elias stops, Melanie's so sore the lightest touch of his fingers makes her dance. His other hand strokes her back, less soothing than proprietary, an owner with his animal. He rubs his hand up and down her back as he works a finger into her. Not that she isn't plenty wet, but the swelling resists him, and he's not kind enough to be quick about it. She's trying to press her hips forward. There's nowhere to go. The muscles of her thighs are shuddering as she tries and tries not to shut her legs.

"Please," Melanie says, in that lovely tiny scraped-thin voice. "Please, Elias, don't, please, use my mouth, fuck my arse--"

"You have been such a convenience for me," he murmurs. The word is deliberately chosen, and perfectly true. A convenience, like a kettle or a public toilet. Not a person at all. "So useful. I don't even have to leave the office." He draws his finger out of her and wipes it on her lower back.

Elias moves around behind her. He makes sure to make noise as he undoes his belt, in no particular hurry. There had been a half dozen reasons to be Elias, and he'd be lying if he said this wasn't one of them--the erection he freed was enough to hurt her sometimes when he fucked her normally. This time would be worse.

Melanie whines like an animal as the thick blunt head of his cock drags up and down her bruised skin, bumping her abused clit, catching at her entrance.

"Please--please--"

Elias stops. He lets go of his cock, lets it rest between her lips, shaft dragging at her clit when he moves. He leans forward, and when he puts a hand splay-fingered between her shoulderblades, that's when she freezes. That's when fear becomes sleet in her veins, no longer just an emotion, a painful and physical reality, a fear that scars and damages, because this is what well-trained Melanie knows is coming next:

"Do you want to see?" he says.

The gesture is not necessary. He could drive this image into her like a railroad spike at any distance. It is their little ritual, and rituals have power.

"Please," Melanie sobs. "Please, please, no--"

"Melanie," Elias says. "You don't say no to me."

She goes silent. He presses his fingers down, and opens the air between them, opens an eye inside her mind. Lets it all fall through, the intoxicating feeling of her bruised lips hugging his cock, the idle, casual way he'd decided to hurt her this morning, how easy it was for him, how little it meant, how he could see every little way she betrayed herself. There is nothing she can keep from him if he decides he wants it, and Elias makes sure she knows it. 

The first time he'd done this--well, the second time--he'd shown her herself, one hand tucked between her legs, the other twisting and pinching her nipples, and he'd told her exactly what she'd been thinking of. Aloud, because he wasn't a terrible boss, and that was what she wanted, to hear his voice telling her what a slut she was, and that she belonged to him. She'd responded so well to that that he'd given her a little glimpse every time after. Just little snapshots of how good her gag reflex felt massaging his cock, how she clenched around him when he abused her breasts, how she looked passed out on his floor, his tie around her neck. It never fails to squeeze some tears out.

He lets the connection go and pulls back a little. Melanie is crying quietly into the desk. Elias works the wide head of his cock into her. The beating has made her entrance tight and assuredly painful, but she's still wet for him. He goes slow, making sure she feels it, every inch. 

She feels incredible, burning hot and tight, and generously, he tells her so. Elias is in her head enough to hear a faint echo, less heard than felt, of his own voice. He strokes her back again, when he's fully inside her, then takes ahold of her hips and sets to pleasing himself. Frequently his thrusts force her clit against the desk, which is entertaining, because she can't decide if the pressure is worth the pain, but he's not doing it on purpose. He does have other work to do today.

When he feels his orgasm coming, he pulls out. Melanie makes a high and gasping noise (every thrust felt like a bar of molten iron, every thrust pushed her clit into the desk, every thrust dragged across that place inside her). Elias fists his cock and strokes himself to the finish. He makes sure his come lands on the sorest, most swollen places of her, so she won't be cleaning it off any time soon.

He thinks of having her clean him off in her mouth, and regretfully decides he doesn't have the time. Instead he takes a fistful of her skirt and uses that. Elias is buttoned up and back in his desk chair by the time Melanie is pushing herself up on shaking arms.

"That will be all, Melanie," he says, when she looks about to speak. 

Elias is pulling up a spreadsheet. The Eye is watching Melanie slowly inching her knickers back up her legs. Fawn-wobbly, drunk-clumsy, the smooth satiny fabric feeling as rough as sandpaper. Her head down, her shoulders curved. Proud Melanie, who would gnaw off her own leg to get away from him, but cannot yet bring herself to endanger the others. She'll get there. In the meantime--

"Melanie," Elias says.

A long silence. "Boss?" Finally. Sullenly.

Elias looks up. She's thinking he looks mild and unaffected. She's thinking he looks like a bear trap. "If you get yourself off before I've given you permission," he says. "I will know. And I will ensure you regret it."

"Oh," she says. "Threats. How new and different."

His come is drying in her underwear. It hurts her even to stand, and the combination of shame and arousal inside her is so sharp it hurts. Still, without his hands on her, she finds it in her to smart off. It's nearly impressive. If he'd met her before Jon--but no.

"Indeed," Elias says, "threats," and he moves a folder on his desk, off the tape recorder it had been sitting on.

Melanie flinches back a step. A smile pulls at his mouth, without him willing it to.

"Has that been running--"

"Let's not find out," Elias says. "You may go. Send my next appointment in."

Melanie staggers out. Elias goes back to his spreadsheet, humming a little. 

It was good to be the boss.


End file.
